


Falling (Sherlock's POV)

by amiyrasmom



Series: Falling [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiyrasmom/pseuds/amiyrasmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the events of the first Falling story.  What was Sherlock thinking while John agonized over these newly discovered feelings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Realization

**The Realization**

 

            Sherlock knew down to the exact second when John had finally figured it out.  Being a genius was good for something besides solving crime.  And he was exceptionally good at reading his flat mate’s thoughts.  They were written all over him normally.  So he could tell anyone who asked (not that anyone ever would, except John and that was only to be expected) the exact date and time John Watson realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

To tell the truth he was slightly disappointed by John’s reaction to this momentous realization.  He’d expected more fireworks.  He’d expected John to gasp and then run from the room to go somewhere to think, to obsess, and to just figure out what he was going to do now that his whole sexual identity was called into question at the very least.  That would have been a normal heterosexual man’s reaction (he thinks; he’s not completely sure because he’s never felt the need to study such a reaction).  If said straight man hadn’t first punched him and then run off to do that other stuff.  He’d been half expecting that as well (but only half as the odds of John actually causing him bodily harm were nearly nil).

            All he got was a half second panic attack and then nothing.  John calmly went back to his newspaper.  Why did John always surprise him so?  Why did he never react the way Sherlock thought he would?  This was completely unfair.  He’d been expecting fireworks and angst and drama and all he received was calm acceptance.  (Really though, he should have expected that.  John was the calmest most level headed person he’d ever met.  So John’s single instant of panic and then calm acceptance should not have surprised him at all.)

            Though he would deny it unto his very last breath should it ever come to light, Sherlock had been agonizing over his own feelings (feelings he could have sworn were non-existent) since the Pool.  Oh, he’d known almost from the instant he’d met John that he could and probably would love him (as much as a self-proclaimed sociopath could anyway).  He’d just been unaware of exactly how much the other man would come to mean to him until stupid Moriarty tried to blow them up. 

And wasn’t that a kick in the gut.  Sherlock still had nightmares of John, his John, in that vest of Semtex.  Note:  Semtex is not, NOT an adequate fashion accessory.  It doesn’t blend well with any human being’s complexion and should be avoided at all costs especially if your name is John Watson.  Just don’t ever wear it again.  Semtex can give your flat mate and best friend a heart attack more quickly than any other fashion disaster ever could.  Just so you know.

            The nightmares only eased on those rare occasions when Sherlock crept into John’s room and slept on his floor.  Because he did sleep…some.  Or when he passed out on the sofa during the day and John was home and awake.  He always told John he was thinking at those times, he’d even trained himself to say that while he slept.  He would have preferred actually being able to touch John while he slept (just to be sure he was still there, of course) but listening to his breathing would have to do for now. 

            So Sherlock was agonizing over what it meant and what was going to change now.  Because things changed now, didn’t they?  Sherlock knew that falling in love did strange things to humans and no matter how much he wished it wasn’t so he was human.  Would John want him to change?  Would he (gulp) have to be nice to people now?  He really hoped John didn’t expect him to completely change his personality. 

Over the next few days Sherlock would discover that John had no intention of changing him in any way.  Sure he’d bark at him for the experiments and sigh in exaggerated disappointment over his insults but he never told him to stop, only pointed out that the first was dangerous at times and the second crossed the line into ‘not good’ sometimes.  That discovery wouldn’t be for a few days though.  Right now he was fuming because John was being uncooperative.

Sweet, dependable, funny, loyal John?  Well, he was being infuriatingly unpredictable!  Instead of hysterics and denial and whatever else straight men did when they figured out that they were gay, John calmly accepted it and moved on!  It was infuriating!

            What was Sherlock supposed to do now?  Tell John that he knew that John was in love with him?  Right, that would be an extremely bad idea.  No one ever liked it when he showed off his deductive skills.  Well, no one but John, he never minded when Sherlock deduced him and he was never offended by Sherlock’s findings either.  This was different though, wasn’t it?  What if John didn’t want him to know?  What if he wasn’t ready for a relationship yet?

            Normally he would let John’s reactions guide him in the realm of emotion.  John was far better with human interaction than he was.  Well, then, he’d just do the same here.  He would wait until John made the first move and then he’d respond and they’d live forever, together.  Truly that was the most sensible, logical plan and he wondered why it had taken him so long to come to this conclusion. 

Now then, that bit of cat hair on the victim’s uncle’s trousers; that was suspicious.  The victim didn’t have a cat, nor did the uncle.  But the victim’s boyfriend did!  Aha!  So the uncle was shagging the boyfriend.  Now did they conspire to kill the victim together?  Need more data.

            “Come, John, we must go talk to the uncle again.”  Sherlock jumped up off the couch and headed for the door.

            “Of course, Sherlock,” John set aside his paper and stood.  “Er, why?”

            “Cat hair, John!”  Sherlock called back as he loped out the door and down the stairs.  “Do keep up!”

 

 


	2. Angelo's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feeds Sherlock after a case and Sherlock can sense there is something he needs to say. Will he say it?

**Angelo’s**

 

            Somehow it seemed they ended up at Angelo’s at least twice a week.  Sherlock was sure it was because John knew that pasta was the one food he’d happily eat once he’d finished a case.  The post case high always made him hungry.  Granted it usually lasted for less than an hour but John always seemed to get them into the comfort of Angelo’s before his hunger could fade.  And Angelo’s made the best pasta he’d ever tasted so it worked out well.

            Not even Mycroft with his CCTV cameras and his spies and his bugs knew Sherlock that well.  Only John.  Only ever John.  Sherlock didn’t know how John had come to know him so well.  It should have been impossible for such an ordinary, boring man to know Sherlock’s mind and body and needs that well.  But John did and Sherlock felt this pointed out how right they were for each other.

            John knew when he would eat and when he wouldn’t (though those times were becoming less and less because John was a sneaky little bugger and had taken to leaving fresh fruit and vegetables and sometimes pastries on the mantle and the coffee table and Sherlock would unconsciously take bites from them as he paced the flat). 

He knew when Sherlock needed quiet to think and when he needed a walk to sort things out in his head.  Before John Sherlock had never known that walking around aimlessly actually could serve a purpose.  John was brilliant.  Really, truly brilliant.

John was a puzzle that Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever solve or grow tired of.  John looked so ordinary and gave off that harmless, innocent aura that just drew people in.  He should be utterly predictable, but he wasn’t.  It was definitely different to anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. 

Sherlock had always believed that sentiment was a disadvantage.  Granted he’d picked that up from Mycroft…well, that explained quite a bit actually.  Mycroft was wrong, again, as usual.  So maybe sentiment wasn’t so bad.  Sherlock had certainly found himself doing things because of sentiment lately.  Since he’d first met John actually.  He still had the bottle that had held the pill from Jefferson Hope.  Their first case.  Sherlock hadn’t been sure why he was keeping the stupid, plain, boring bottle but now he knew.

And somehow Angelo’s had become their spot, as normal couples were wont to call such places when they were being sentimental.  John had never even thought to bring one of his many women here.  That was…good, very good and showed that John attached just as much sentiment to the restaurant as Sherlock himself did.  Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure why that made him happy, only that it did.  Those women didn’t belong here.  Angelo’s was only for him and John, no one else.

            This night had been the same as any other, case wise.  John had had his ground breaking, earth shattering (well not really those things but Sherlock liked to edit history when he could get away with it, made it more colorful that way) realization nearly a week ago and had yet to do anything with the information.  They had solved the case and John had hustled him into Angelo’s where Billy and Angelo already had a table set for them and food ready and waiting.  John must have texted them.  (Clever blogger, isn’t he?)

            Sherlock grinned while he explained all his deductions from the case to John between mouthfuls of a lovely risotto.  Sherlock never minded rehashing their cases with John.  The fact that explaining everything again would have irritated him with anyone else was ignored by Sherlock as a matter of course.  John was different.  John was…well, John.  He was always such a good audience.  The way his eyes lit up when Sherlock disparaged Anderson and that engaging smirk over the look on Anderson’s face always made Sherlock feel warm.  His breathless praises for Sherlock’s brilliance led to Sherlock feeling about a hundred feet tall and capable of anything and everything.  John was perfect in every way.  Sherlock couldn’t contemplate anyone being a better companion.

            “Sherlock?”  John asked quietly during a lull in Sherlock’s spirited monologue.  His hazel eyes brimming with both joy and trepidation, John looked far too serious for the light hearted banter and conversation that they’d been engaging in only moments ago.

            Why had John suddenly become so serious?  That made no sense.  Sherlock hadn’t said anything to disappoint or irritate John.  Why…Oh.  Oh!  _Oh!_

            For a split second Sherlock’s brain did something it had never done before.  Never.  Not in his entire life.  It screeched to a stop.  Then, as if to make up for this lapse, it raced as fast as it ever had.  Now?  He was going to tell him.  Right now?  Here?  Well, he decided after a moment of consideration, it was rather appropriate.  What did he do?  What did he say? He was unprepared for this right now.  Okay so he wasn’t really.  He just hadn’t been expecting it here and now.  John continued to surprise him.

Acknowledge him!  His brain screamed.  Sherlock had done some very extensive research.  The internet had everything after all.  The sites had all agreed that he needed to acknowledge John in some way.  He wasn’t altogether clear if he was supposed to acknowledge him before or after his declaration but John was always scolding him for not listening so he decided to do both.  Before would show John that Sherlock was listening to him and after, well, Sherlock didn’t think he could stop himself from answering the long awaited declaration of love.

            “Yes, John.”  He beamed across the table at his blogger.  It was an answer.  It was acknowledgement.  It was reassurance.  It was…

            John’s hazel eyes were darkening, the fear taking over.  Fear of what?  Rejection?  Mockery?  “I…that was amazing.”

            Wrong!  It was wrong.  John wasn’t supposed to say that.  He was supposed to say that he loved Sherlock.  How disappointing.  Where had John’s much lauded bravery gone?  Sherlock felt his appetite disappearing.

 

 


	3. The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pacing the flat. John's watching. Is he gonna say the words this time?

**The Flat**

 

            The afternoon sun filtered through the worn curtains of 221B Baker St. giving the parlour an eerie half gloom feeling.  The occupants of the room didn’t seem to notice the almost heavy atmosphere though.  They were both lost inside their own heads and not paying a whit of attention to their surroundings.

Sherlock paced the room manically while trying to find the missing piece to the puzzle of the dead decorator.  John was staring off into nothing though his eyes tracked Sherlock’s movements intently.

Sherlock whirled around to head back towards the fireplace in a flurry of dressing gown.  He could feel John’s gaze on him.  John’s staring was distracting him.  Why was John staring?  He knew John was in love with him but he’d paced this way hundreds of times and John had never stared at him with such intensity before.  It was annoying that he chose now to stare when Sherlock had other things on his mind.

Sherlock continued to pace and run through all the clues at top speed trying to solve both the crime and the mystery of John’s staring.  Really though the Work had to take top priority at the moment.  John should know this.  Why was John staring?  It was distracting.

            His brain clicked and his tense shoulders relaxed just a little.  Maybe John had seen something he hadn’t.  It happened far more often than people thought.  This was one of Sherlock’s main reasons for calling the entirety of the Yard idiots anymore.  Really, John wasn’t a stupid man.  He was a doctor and he’d survived numerous warzone’s in his nearly twenty years in the army.  Of course he would see things that Sherlock would normally miss or dismiss.

Or John would repeat the evidence in such a way that it made a different connection obvious, which happened even more often than him spotting something Sherlock had missed.  Sherlock adored the way John thought even if he didn’t quite understand it yet.  He would though.  Sherlock had made John into his own personal puzzle and he would happily spend the rest of his life trying to solve him.

            But this wasn’t helping to solve the case of the dead decorator.  Sherlock once again wrenched his brain away from thoughts of John and back to the Work.  This was getting a bit out of hand.  If John would only finally say the words then Sherlock was positive he could concentrate much better.

            “What do you think, John?  Do you think the brother was resentful enough to kill his sister?”  Sherlock asked.  Trying not to think about John was obviously not working so he may as well include him in the conversation.  At least then maybe he could think about the case as well.  That was logical and right, yes.  Perfect.  Except John wasn’t answering.  Why wasn’t John answering?

            “John, have you fallen asleep…again?”  No answer.  Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at his flatmate.  Hazel eyes open but glazed and unseeing.  Was John asleep with his eyes open?  Preposterous.  “John?”  No answer again.  “John.”  He called his name a bit louder.  “John!”  He finally shouted in exasperation.  “Are you even listening to me?”

            John started violently, shook his head as though to shake away his own thoughts and then grinned.  Actually grinned at Sherlock.  “Nope.  Can’t understand a thing you’re saying when you talk so fast, Sherlock.”  His voice was cheerful.  It always was when he said such things.  It made Sherlock feel as though they were sharing a private joke at times.  Other times, like now, it only irritated him because he knew he’d have to repeat himself.

            Sherlock scowled.  He hated when he did that.  It was utterly maddening and he’d never realized how quickly he talked when he was excited until John had come to live with him.  John was the only one who ever called him on it too.  Everyone else either nodded like they understood or treated him like a freak that was speaking Ancient Greek or some other dead language…which truthfully he could but he rarely did at least at crime scenes. 

Well, that explained the intense stare then.  John was most likely trying to work out what he’d said while at the same time not interrupting his thinking process.  John was nice like that.  He usually tried not to interrupt Sherlock unless it was something that he thought was vitally important.  Normally it wasn’t but Sherlock did give him points for trying.  

“I was saying that it has to be the brother because the victim wasn’t married,” Sherlock continued making an effort to speak more slowly.  “According to her neighbors she had no boyfriend and most thought she was a lesbian and yet there was men’s cologne in her bathroom and men’s shirts in her closet.”  He turned and started pacing again.  He needed to think and now that John wasn’t staring anymore it was considerably easier.

            Sherlock heard the small chuckle and knew that John was saluting him with his tea cup.  He always did.  This gesture always amused Sherlock and let him know that he was speaking to fast again.  Sherlock shrugged it off.  John was one of the few people who would eventually work out what he said and draw the proper conclusions.

            Suddenly the air in the room changed, became charged with something undefinable and yet familiar.  Sherlock paused for a moment but in the end he shook the heavy feeling off.  He knew it was cruel of him but he didn’t have time to deal with sentiment and feelings and love at the moment.  A man’s freedom or incarceration depended on him solving this case. 

If he felt a stab of disappointment and sorrow as the air returned to its previous state as quickly as it had to the heaviness of pending declarations…well, he shook that off too.  He had to solve this stupid case of a dead decorator first and then he could deal with John and his inability to form a simple sentence.

 

 


	4. The Cab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are on the way to the site of a triple murder in a cab. Will John say it?
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the wait. I was sick or working all week. 

**The Cab**

 

            Two forms burst from the doorway and dashed to the waiting cab.  Muffled chuckles could barely be heard over the drip, drip, drip of the slowly falling rain.  The taller of the two forms threw himself into the cab first in an elegant dive and sprawl.  The shorter one laughed again as he sedately lowered himself in and shut the door behind them.  A third figure stood backlighted in the doorway shaking her head at their antics.

            As the cab was swallowed by the night and the fog and the rain, Mrs. Hudson let a smile crease her aged cheeks and shut the door against the chill.  Those boys, she thought ruefully.  Why could they not see what she did?  They were so wrapped up in each other and yet completely oblivious to it at the same time.  It was rather amusing.  She just hoped they got their acts together soon.  Within the next week at the latest.  After that someone else, Mycroft’s lovely assistant she believed, would win the pot.

 

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

 

Sherlock realized he was in excellent spirits as John climbed into the cab after him.  He didn’t have to even think about it to know why he was so excited and pleased.  He knew a grin of delight was stretching his cheeks.  He’d have to fix a blank expression onto his face before they reached the crime scene (though maybe if he showed up with this delighted expression he could shock Anderson into a heart attack.  That would be hilarious.)  But for now there was only him and John and the rainy, foggy London night.  Well, and the cabbie but he seemed miles away inside the close confines of the cab.  He could grin all he wanted and no one would think anything of it.

He had his blogger sitting right next to him, where he should always be.  Truly.  It was as though John had been born specifically to be at his side.  Sherlock had never believed in fate.  He wasn’t religious and he thought that the sentimental codswallop about soul mates was nothing more than foolish twaddle.  Still…John had become as necessary as one of his arms or legs.  Not quite up there with his prodigious brain yet but very close.  He couldn’t imagine a life without the short ex-army doctor anymore.  The thought of the lonely emptiness of a future without John would be enough to give him nightmares if he ever slept.

And tonight he had a triple murder inside Westminster Abbey.  A rare triple murder and inside a national tourist attraction.  Wonderful!  This was going to be so much fun.  Unless it turned out to be an easy boring murder, then it wouldn’t be so much fun.  Still even if it was easy maybe he and John would have to chase the murderer.  John liked to run.  So did he.  Leaping over alleys from the rooftops.  Scaling fences.  Running until there was nothing but the pounding of their feet and the thrill of the chase.  It was the best adrenaline rush he’d ever experienced.  Better than the drugs, better than sex even.  Though that could change if John would just get on with things.  Sex with John would probably be better than the chase.  He really hoped it was anyway.

Life couldn’t get much better than this, Sherlock nodded to himself mentally and then he paused.  Well, it could if John would just, what was that saying?  Oh, yes, if John would just pull his thumb out and get on with telling Sherlock that he loved him then life would be absolutely perfect.  Yes, then everything would be golden.

            Speaking…er, thinking of his blogger/flatmate/best friend/heart however you wished to call the ex-soldier, Sherlock glanced over at him without moving his head in his direction.  It would never do to allow John to know how often Sherlock watched him.  Grin growing even larger, he observed that intense stare in the reflection of John’s face in the window.  Oh.  Superb.  He was finally going to say the words.  Excellent.  Brilliant.  He watched cautiously as John drew a deep breath.

            Sherlock nearly huffed.  Really?  Was it truly that hard to say three little words?  True, it would be a disaster if Sherlock didn’t feel the same but he did and so John could say them and get the response he wanted without worry. 

            “Sherlock?”  John’s voice filled the silence of the cab.  It was startling and made Sherlock realize he was holding his breath.  Why was he holding his breath?  That was ridiculous.  John would either say the words or he wouldn’t and Sherlock’s breathing patterns wouldn’t sway him one way or the other.  Still, he’d done it unconsciously.  Interesting.

            “Yes, John.”  Sherlock feared his own voice was breathy.  He wondered if it was some kind of biological imperative in the human psyche.  Would a breathy voice increase the chances of someone (John) saying what one (Sherlock) wanted to hear?  He made a note to experiment with the theory later.  Right now he was straining his ears to hear John’s declaration.

            “I…”  Had that croak of a sound truly come from his unflappable little soldier?  “I…um…”  Really what was wrong with John?  This was becoming increasingly frustrating.  Why could the man just string three little words into a sentence?  It was maddening.  John wasn’t normally this inarticulate.

            “Yes, John.”  Sherlock gritted his teeth to bite back the words swarming in his mind.  He wanted John to say it first.  John had to say it first.  John needed to acknowledge the feelings between them for himself before he could believe that Sherlock reciprocated them.  He turned to look at John but the other man’s gaze didn’t leave the reflection in the window.  Avoidance.  Sherlock frowned.  Why was John avoiding him?  John didn’t normally avoid his gaze.  He heard John’s sigh and nearly sighed himself.  He was going to chicken out…again.

            “Where are we going again?”  John asked, his voice far too small.  Those hazel eyes didn’t leave the window but Sherlock didn’t believe that the smaller man could see anything at all.

            Now Sherlock did sigh, heavily.  Where had his brave soldier gone?  “Westminster Abbey, John.”  He reminded the doctor in a dead voice.  Were the words that hard to say?

            “Oh.  Right.”  John nodded faintly and they both returned to staring out the windows into the rainy London night.  Alone even though they were together.

            Sherlock’s good mood evaporated faster than water in Hell would, if there truly was a Hell.  If there was it couldn’t be worse than this limbo he found himself in now.

 

 


	5. The Surgery

After fifteen minutes of explaining his deductions about the burglary they were investigating Sherlock finally realized that John wasn’t answering him or making any of those “I’m hearing you but not really listening” noises. Shocked and disturbed, he gazed around their parlour. There was no sign of the other man being present. He listened closely to the silence of the flat and frowned. John wasn’t in the flat.  


John was gone. Where had he gone? John shouldn’t be gone. Sherlock needed him. He had a theory about the burglary and the skull wasn’t helping him at all. Not that the skull had helped him much since John had moved in but today it was as though it was mocking him with its stubborn silence. It was quite irritating. He shouldn’t need John like this but he had long ago accepted that he did. He had thought that John understood this.  


Irritated and lonely, Sherlock reviewed the files in his mind and remembered that it was Wednesday. Oh. He’d nearly deleted that data. John was at work. Blast! Why did John have to work? It wasn’t fair. He needed John here. He wanted tea and nobody made tea better than John. He should text him to come home and make him some tea.  


Even as he reached for his mobile phone he changed his mind. No, better not, John would be angry at him if he did that, again. He could make his own tea. It wouldn’t be as good but he’d drink it anyway. He would rather not have John angry with him again. It made his chest hurt when John was angry with him. He wasn’t sure why John’s anger actually caused physical pain but he was fairly sure it had something to do with being in love with him. There was that saying about hurting the ones you love and the one about love hurting after all.  


Would the pains in his chest stop when John finally admitted his love? Would he stop fearing that John’s anger meant the smaller man would leave him? He really hoped so though he reckoned that it would take a bit of time before the fear of abandonment would leave him. After all, everyone left him eventually. But John was different. John wasn’t like everyone else. John was special. And this wool gathering wasn’t getting the tea made.  


Groaning in frustration, Sherlock stood up from the sofa and made his way into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and turned it on to boil and then opened the refrigerator to get the milk. The jug was a bit light. There wasn’t any milk left. Damn! He couldn’t drink tea without milk. He’d have to text John to pick up some more. He flipped the kettle off and flopped back onto the couch, pouting.  


He reached out one arm lazily to snag his phone, suddenly his body jackknifed up into a sitting position as a thought struck him. Clever blogger, he praised John mentally. John knew he preferred to text. John was going to tell him by text. Extraordinary. Clever John. So very unexpectedly clever. Sherlock chuckled and his fingers danced over the keys.  


TEXT from: Sherlock  
To: John  
Yes, John. We’re out of milk.  
-SH  


There, Sherlock thought as he flopped back down bonelessly with a satisfied smile. That should do it. Now, John could tell him without worrying about whatever it was that was holding him back. He satisfied smile grew as he folded his hands beneath his chin and waited impatiently for the text.  


Moments later, much sooner than he’d expected, he scrambled for the phone as it bleeped for a text received. His fingers had faint tremors as he opened the text. Here it was, finally. Finally they could start the rest of eternity together. Because one lifetime with John was far too short.  


TEXT from: John  
To: Sherlock  
I’ll pick some up on my way home. Anything else?  


He tried to scroll down. Nothing more. Where was the rest? Where was his ‘I love you’? Sherlock tossed the phone back on the table and slumped down on the sofa, drumming his heels in anger as he let out a howl of rage and sorrow.  


This was so very irritating. One more week, he decided as his frustrated rage faded. He’d give John one more week to come clean and then he’d just grab the ex-soldier and snog him to within an inch of his life. He nodded to himself. That would work. Only one more week then.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

In a nondescript office not so very far away, Mycroft Holmes had to stifle a bark of laughter. Sherlock’s temper tantrums had always been a source of amusement to him and this one was no different. His little brother was quite a different person when he thought no one could see him.  


He didn’t need to be the genius he was to know what had prompted this little outburst. Dr. Watson was still being reticent. Mycroft thought about nudging things along between the two men, Alisha was so looking forward to the two thousand pounds that was in the pot currently. But after a bit of reflection he dismissed the idea. They needed to figure this out for themselves. Any nudging by anyone else would only lead to resentment later.  


Besides if the look of fierce determination now adorning his brother’s face was any indication Sherlock would have things well in hand by week’s end. With an indulgent smile and a wistful look at the pastries on Alisha’s desk Mycroft shut off the monitor.  
 


End file.
